


Losing You (Has Left Me Numb)

by LuminescentLullaby



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Angst, Brief mention of contemplated suicide, Canonical Character Death, Grieving, I don't know how this happened it just did, I don't know why I did this to you or myself, I'm so sorry, James is a little shit because reasons, Like it's just a tiny snippet but I thought I should tag it just in case, M/M, Percival grieving, That's basically what this is, What Have I Done, much much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 21:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4074295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuminescentLullaby/pseuds/LuminescentLullaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Ten months.</i><br/> <br/><i>Ten months, sixteen days, and eleven hours.</i></p>
<p>
  <i>That was how long it had been since Percival's world had shattered.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Losing You (Has Left Me Numb)

**Author's Note:**

> So... Uh.... Sorry? I tried to write some Percilot because I'm trash, and this is what came out?

Ten months.

Ten months, sixteen days, and eleven hours.

That was how long it had been since Percival's world had shattered.

Of course, they had known it would happen eventually, to one of them if not the other. That knowledge didn't make it any easier to stomach.

For the past fourteen years, Percival had worried over James every time he'd gone on a mission alone- and vice versa- though it had never occurred to him to really worry about himself and what he would do if the worst ever did come to pass. The pain. The emptiness. The loss of sensation.

Feeling utterly hollow had not been taken into account.

He'd managed to get into a routine after a month or so, after everyone else had quit grieving, after he was supposed to be somewhat back to himself, or at least enough that everyone could believe he was.

(He wasn't.)

In the mornings, when he awoke, he never said anything aloud, as if so much as speaking would break the spell that bound him together, allowed him to carry on.

(There was no need to speak, really, not when there was no more bright chirp of, "Good morning, my dearest, darlingest Perci-bear!" There was no smugly smiling face for him to roll over and smack with his pillow and a grumbled, "Fuck off, James, the sun isn't even awake yet." There was no bloody morning person in his bed. He found himself getting up early, still, anyway.)

Breakfast was an equally unpleasant affair. Making himself coffee and being startled by the pop of the toaster more often than not since there was nothing- no one- to distract him from it anymore.

(He'd lost more than one to his trigger finger, admittedly. James would probably find that hilarious.)

It wasn't until he got to Headquarters that he made himself put on his best face, acting like he was alright, that he was getting back to being whole inside.

(How could he ever be properly whole again when his heart had been so neatly sliced into halves?)

Even having his own recruit earn the title of Lancelot really hadn't helped him as now he was in charge of her formal training, of making sure she was truly prepared to be out in the field. Hearing "Percival and Lancelot" through the comms had him all but looking over his shoulder half of the time, as Roxy was Lancelot, yes, but she would never be _his_ Lancelot. 

( _"Your knight in shining armour, Percipoo! That's what I am!"_

_"You're insufferable is what you are, James."_

_"And yet, you love me."_

_"With all of my heart.")_

Missions, too, were filled with an unbearable sense of loneliness, as it was rare that he and James hadn't been together on theirs. Percival was too cold on his own, too uncaring, while James tended to cause far more destruction than was necessary.

(The first assassination Percival had taken after James's death, he'd missed the first shot because there was no familiar voice humming showtunes in his ear.)

Any pretenses of enjoying any of it- the job, the locations, anything- were long gone. Now it was merely a matter of getting in, doing what had to be done regardless of what that might entail, and getting out. No celebratory drinks, no 'we're alive, we're alive, we're _alive_ ' sex in stunning, expensive hotels, no idle banter as they cleaned their guns and waited for their plane.

(Now, he often wondered what the barrel would taste like as he cleaned them. In the end, it was the fear of letting his love down that kept him from eating a bullet.)

Ten months.

Ten months, sixteen days, and eleven hours.

That was how long Percival had mourned the loss of the most impossible, wonderful, splendidly imperfect man he had ever known, the only one he had ever truly, honestly loved, with everything he'd had.

(He still had a lifetime to go.)


End file.
